


The Curse of Gilda

by Kameka (Joanna_Kay)



Category: Notting Hill (1999)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Misunderstandings, Repost of old work (see notes), post-breakup (ish)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29662155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanna_Kay/pseuds/Kameka
Summary: "Every man has gone to bed with Gilda... and woken up with me." (Rita Hayworth, paraphrased.)Anna Scott's thoughts after having the argument with William and leaving his flat, after Spike informed the paparazzi of where she was.
Relationships: Anna Scott/William Thacker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	The Curse of Gilda

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first Notting Hill fic (of, I believe, 2) and was posted on my old account on ff.net in '03. In it are two deleted scenes, described at the end.
> 
> I do apologize for any formatting issues. In the original, a bit was italicized and I don't know how to do that on AO3.
> 
> I hope you like it!

Anna Scott made her way through the crowd of British paparazzi, eternally grateful for the human shield that hired bodyguards formed as flashbulb after flashbulb went off in her face. Reporters yelled her name, attempting not only to get her attention but also to get answers to their questions. Questions that she didn't want to answer. Questions that she wasn't sure how to answer.

Do you have anything to say about the photographs?

Whose flat is this?

Who is the man who opened the door?

What is your relationship with him?

She gave a choked half-laugh, half-sob at the last question. What was her relationship with him, with William Thacker? She repeated to herself, frowning when the inner voice that everyone depended on to be honest sounded slightly hysterical. That was definitely the sixty-four million dollar question. Wait, wrong country: thirty million pound question.

She knew what she wanted the relationship to be, what was in the back of her mind even as she made her way through the bustling crowds of Notting Hill, covertly watching the surrounding faces for any sign of recognition as she made her way to the blue door. To the sanctuary that beckoned and promised safety from the prying eyes and questions, from the hornet's nest that the reappearance of a decade-old roll of film had stirred up.

She should have expected to get stung, sooner or later. As soon as that stupid, uncomfortable photo shoot had ended, as soon as she had quickly drawn on her clothing, even while accepting the promised money, she had regretted her decision. She'd gone through with it for one reason only, a simple one at that: the money. Pretty much anyone who only had fifteen dollars to her name and no auditions in the next few weeks, no prospect of a job that would pay enough for anything would have taken the chance. Especially when so many of her friends, other struggling actors and actresses who worked their tails off working underpaid jobs and going to auditions and still not having enough money to pay rent and have decent, regular meals did the same thing. If they did it, why shouldn't she? Was she that much better than them? It wasn't as if she'd known she'd become so famous, that the film would come back to haunt her. Dreamed, yes; hoped, yes; but truly believed? Not in a million years. Not when she knew how many actors and actresses struggled throughout their lives, waiting for that one big break that would make them famous.

Anna came back to reality abruptly, flinching as a hand was placed on her elbow. She looked around, quickly lowering her head and hefting the bag she carried closer to her chest. She was still in the journalistic frenzy, still standing outside the house with the blue door. The closed blue door. Swallowing against a suddenly dry throat, she accepted the proffered help into the limousine. The door closed behind her and she was enveloped in sudden, deafening silence, safe behind a barrier of tinted glass and surrounded by plush upholstery. The car began moving slowly, the driver obviously trying not to injure anyone in the teeming throng.

She twisted in her seat and looked at the sanctuary she had found for too short a time. The blue door was almost invisible, not because of distance but because of the reporters standing between her and it. Talk about symbolism, she thought as a rough, mirthless chuckle filled the car. Still, she continued watching, her eyes seeking the upper story windows. They were empty.

Well, what did you expect? She asked herself derisively. That he'd be sorry she was leaving? That he'd be watching, hoping she would turn around and go back?

Not bloody likely. Another pain-filled chuckle filled the air as she turned back and settled herself properly in the seat. She warred with herself for precious moments before strengthening her resolve not to look back again.

"Who is he?"

The soft-spoken question made Anna jump before she recognized the voice and that James was sitting across from her. "Sorry, I didn't know you were there; I must be losing my mind," she joked, expected a wry comment to the effects that anyone who voluntarily went into a field like acting had lost their mind long ago. Instead, only silence was her answer and she again apologized. "My great idea wasn't so great after all, was it?"

"It seemed like it would work," came the answer. "It did work, for a while. Your friend called the press?"

Her first answer was a glare, one that James was grateful for even if it was accompanied by the temper associated with her auburn hair and Irish heritage. "William wouldn't do something like that," she defended the absent man in a tone that brooked no argument. Even as the statement rang true she could hear herself accusing him. Come buy a boring book about Egypt from the guy who screwed Anna Scott. She winced at the unfairness of the attack. "It was his roommate," she finally elaborated.

If only she'd paid more attention last night, extracted a promise from Spike that he wouldn't tell anyone who his roommate's unexpected houseguest was. Or even suggested that he not go to the pub for a few drinks with his friends, that he stay there. But she hadn't wanted Spike to hang around the place with her and William. She'd wanted William all to her, to savor the connection she'd thought was lost. Even if she had requested that he not tell anyone that she was there, would the furry Welshman have gone along with it? Would the same man who stuck his head through the opening to the roof and blithely complimented her on nude photographs, the reason she was there in the first place, have had the presence of mind not to tell all of his friends the wonderful, exciting news he had?

Rita Hayworth used to say 'they go to bed with Gilda and don't like it when they wake up with me.' Is that what this is? The curse of Gilda? No, that's not right. William isn't like that; he was honest this morning… she could tell by his eyes. Why hadn't she paid more attention this morning when everything began to spiral out of control? If only she hadn't jumped to conclusions, onto the defensive and down William's throat. If only she had paid attention to the eyes dull gray with bewilderment and pain instead of to the crowd clamoring outside. If only.

"Why don't you call him?"

Anna stiffened at the question, wary eyes looking towards her European agent. "Who?"

"Your friend," was the simple answer. When there was no reply, they rode in silence for the time it took the car to get to James' office. "You can come in if you wish," he offered as the car slid to a halt, "you know that we have good security."

"I'd rather not run the gauntlet again so soon," she replied, gesturing to the few reporters staked out on the sidewalk, obviously thinking that if Anna Scott had to go somewhere, her agent's office was a good possibility.

James nodded, moving towards the door. "The car has been hired for the entire day; you can use it until you have to leave."

She reached over and lightly touched his cheek. "Thanks."

He nodded and slipped out, closing the door behind himself as quickly as possible.

The car once again took off, the gentle rocking soothing Anna as a kindly disinterested voice came over the intercom. When asked if there was anywhere in particular that she'd like to go, Anna clamped her mouth tightly over the forming words. "I think just a general drive around," she finally answered, silently applauding herself for not asking to be driven back to Notting Hill, back to the house with the blue door, back to William.

As she stared out the window without seeing the passing scenery, Anna was acutely aware of the phone waiting nestled against one of the cushions. A green light showed that it was charged and it was staring at her with unwavering intensity. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, of telling herself not to, she reached over and plucked the phone from its cradle. She stared blankly down at it once she held it, fingers caressing the plastic buttons. Swallowing, she dialed the number she ached to, one she'd called often in her dreams but only once in reality, and lifted it to her ear.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Please pick up, she silently urged, the ache in her chest intensifying with every unanswered ring. Just when she was about to hang up, to close the chapter in her life that included shy bookstore owners, blue doors, and annoying Welsh roommates, the phone was answered by a familiar accented voice – just not the one she wanted to speak to.

"Hello?"

She cleared her throat. "Can you put William on the line?"

"Hang on," and then, slightly muffled: "It's for you." The answer was also muffled, even more distant: "No, no, I-I don't really want to talk to anyone," said in such a weary voice that Anna felt the easing ache clench once more, this time for the pain she could hear in it. "Sorry, Anna, he doesn't want to talk to you," was said in the still jovial voice before the phone was put firmly on the hook, dial tone mingling with the echo she swore she could hear.

She sat silently for a moment before reaching over and pressing the button for the intercom to speak to the driver. "I changed my mind," she said abruptly, praying that her voice wasn't breaking, trembling, that the tears she could feel burning the back of her eyes would remain there. "I'd like to go straight to Heathrow airport."

Her flight wasn't for a few hours but maybe she could get her ticket changed. Instead of flying from London to New York and then on to Los Angeles, she could connect to a different airport, one that was near West Virginia so she could go home to her family. Find some peace in her shifting world before going to work and putting on the mask that she had worn almost every day for a decade. The one that showed only what people expected.

(The End)

Additional Notes:

"James" is the white-haired man who was walking in and out of the hotel room while William was doing his best to interview Anna for "Horse & Hound." No name was mentioned, nor occupation, so I just made a name up and assumed he was her European agent.

The two deleted scenes mentioned in this short piece of fanfiction are:

1) When Anna and William are on the roof while he is helping her with his lines, Spike sticks his head through the opening. "Dinner in half an hour," etc., and "Great photos, by the way," the second of which leads to William giving Anna a rather adorably wary look and some humorous conversation based on Spike, not to mention some Spike background information (he's a musician, though the instrument is apparently unidentifiable.)

2) A scene in which William and Honey are sitting at the dining room table, William looking extremely upset and asking Spike if he told anyone, etc. The phone ringing and William assuming it's a journalist, Spike answering, and the conversation I included here. Spike's words are word-for-word and not my property. Anna's are my own.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it!
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated!


End file.
